


Mandible

by grizzly_bear_bane



Series: Cigar Box [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic Violence, Dubious Morality, First Crush, First Kiss, Gang Violence, Heavy Angst, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Past Child Abuse, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Toxic Environments, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames meet, behind a pub on New Year's Eve, in far less than ideal circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

++

+

 

Arthur’s never been convinced that his body works the same way other boys’ bodies work.

Their bodies carry strength. They're sexual and dominating. Their bodies are predatory, dangerous. They take up space. Arthur has none of that.

Mal used to say that he was just slow in ‘blossoming,’ and maybe in a year, he wouldn’t look like he’s still twelve. Well, he’d been fourteen for almost a year now and even Mal could admit that not much had changed. 

On the other hand, maybe those other boys in foster care were right. Maybe he was supposed to be a girl instead. Arthur knows nothing about girls, so...perhaps. He was so small compared to those other boys. He drowned in the same sweaters their shoulders would stretch. Their pants legs hardly ever reached their ankles, while his he had to roll up to stop the hems from getting frayed under his feet. Those boys couldn’t wiggle their toes in their sneakers and had to stomp into them to fit, but Arthur’s always slipped off his heels when he walked.

According to David, his last foster dad, though, Arthur being small was supposed to be a good thing. And at the time Arthur didn’t understand how or why that was, but that was years ago. Being David's and the other boys’ little girl was never supposed to benefit Arthur. He’d been a toy, and more often than not a punching bag, and always scared and always running straight out of his shoes when they chased him through the flat.

And maybe it's a result of poor nutrition on the streets or just his genes, but he’s still small. Sometimes, though, he’s okay with that. It’s how he’d managed to squeeze between the wall and the dumpster the first night he’d slept under the peach-colored haze of the city’s night sky, when that crazy man with dirt on his face tried to drag him into the park. It’s how he'd slipped out of those handcuffs from the cop who on the first day gave him food and on the second day tried to kidnap him in his squad car.

In the backseat of this mechanic’s old hatchback, Arthur could slip out these handcuffs now. With the chain looped through the handle on the car’s ceiling, he just has to twist his hands a little and they’ll be free, but then what? This guy’s hand covers half of his face. If he punches Arthur for trying to escape, Arthur’s dead. If there's a gun hidden somewhere in all the junk on the car's floor, Arthur's dead. When he looks up at the window he can see the giant cranes and the top of a few buildings in the shipyard, which means an easy trip from here to the river and he would never been seen again.

The man hikes Arthur's shirts up higher, pushes Arthur’s knees tighter to his chest, folding Arthur in half. From this angle, Arthur can see that he’s got bubblegum on the side of one of his Keds and a new hole’s forming near the sole in the other. He’ll have to double his socks again if he doesn’t want to get snow inside his sneakers.

He’s taken out of his thoughts when the man's grunts begin to come out more labored. Arthur struggles a bit under his bulky weight as the car rocks. He can’t breathe anymore under that hand, but he’s choking in air soon enough once the man has finished.

He wants out of the car as fast as he can, but it’s snowing again. The heat’s turned up high in here, making the air feel thick and the front and rear windows start to fog up even more. He’ll freeze with the man’s sweat on him as soon as he gets outside.

Of course, he hasn’t been let go yet. Here’s the moment of truth. Arthur takes a deep breath, realizing that he’s been silently crying this whole time, but it’s the last thing on his mind, considering that he might not be alive by the end of the song playing on the radio.

The man wipes his own brow with a rag he finds under the front seat. He’s wheezing heavily, but grinning down at Arthur as he zips up his coveralls. "I’ll get these off of you, but that’s it. Okay?” Which translates to: ‘Ask me for the money I owe you and I’ll kill you, or leave now empty-handed with your life.’

Arthur nods. "Okay." It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again. Win some, lose some. If he could beat that fifteen dollars out of the man, he would, but he’s too small. 

He does get handed a napkin, at least, for his cooperation, to clean himself up a little before he pulls up his pants.

The man looks him over. "Need me to drop you off back at your spot?"

"No." Spend another ten minutes stuck in a car with a john who just kidnapped and raped him? Arthur glances out of the window again to stop himself from spitting in the man's face, still massaging his red, aching wrists. "No, I'm good."

The guy just shrugs as he tosses the cuffs onto the floor. "Suit yourself. The fuck is this?”

Arthur’s pulling down his hoodie when he hears the man mumble that last part. He freezes, seeing him pick up his old, worn out backpack. Every drop of blood in him seems to disappear when the guy unzips it to look inside.

Now Arthur’s options have changed. If he fights the man and loses, being dead won’t be so bad, because the man has Arthur's Jurassic Park-print sock, with all his crumpled money and the coins he’s found in the gutters, now held in his fist. If he takes that away, that’s it. He’s already not paying, but Arthur will be completely screwed if the man takes what money he’s got in that sock.

Arthur means to beg, to offer to suck his dick or _something_ if he would just give him back that little thing, but instead, his brain shorts out. “Food.”

The man laughs. “You eat pennies and quarters?” But his face falls, seeing Arthur’s distress. After a moment, he waves the sock at him. “You should find something better to keep this in, kid, or somebody’ll take it.” He drops it back in the bag and rummages under the passenger seat upfront. He tosses a bruised apple, a half-empty bottle of water, and three dollars into Arthur’s backpack before zipping it up. He reaches into the front seats again to release the child safety lock. “Get lost, kid.”

Arthur’s legs don’t want to carry him very far, but he’s out of the parking lot soon enough once the mechanic’s driven away, probably headed home to a wife and kids.

He squeezes behind a dumpster so he can have his panic attack in peace and relative quiet. There’s not much that he can do to stop drowning in his anxiety, but he does try, because if he passes out, he’s dead. So he goes through a mental checklist: Does he still have all his clothes? Yes. All of his body parts are still on him? Yes. Does he have his backpack still? Yes.

That last yes does the trick. He can breathe again, clutching his whole life in that little bag.

+

 

The second john is night and day to the first. He says he'll pay twenty-five and he does.

Arthur feels like he's cooped up in that car for a million years, however, and even tries to help the man come faster just so it can finally be over. Maybe Arthur would feel a little guilty for charging him a few extra dollars, but no matter how nice and gentle the man is, he’s still a john, still a john that only picked Arthur up because he thought Arthur looked like some kid in the math class he taught. After having to listen to this creep pour out his love for that other kid? After surviving the mechanic and his handcuffs? Arthur knows he deserves every extra cent he can get out of this man. He tries his luck again.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Benny?"

"Can I have five more dollars, please?" Arthur wipes his eyes tiredly. He's been told before that doing this makes him look younger, 'cute'. It works.

He’s only made a little over forty dollars by the time his body can’t take anymore of the cold. It’s not even ten o’clock yet, but the snow’s about ankle deep now. He can’t feel his hands and feet, but he keeps walking, making a stop at the convenience store where he knows the clerk won’t look at him funny for being alone at night buying burnt coffee and a stale bagel in such a rough part of the city. 

Arthur doesn’t know it’s New Year’s Eve until he’s almost downtown. The throngs of people already gathering in the streets make him nervous. He backtracks, looking to avoid any familiar cops who might be out patrolling the night’s events.

Holding the coffee warms his hands, but his feet are still freezing. He’ll be a popsicle by morning if he falls asleep before the sun’s up, but he’s tired and needs to stop moving, so he huddles in the backdoor of a pub where the snow hasn’t reached the pavement under the little awning.

He slips the top off of the cup to take a few sips and takes a moment just to think. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear Mal’s impossibly high heeled boots clicking on the concrete, smell her brand of cigarettes. He met her here, he realizes, gazing up at the glow of familiar neon signs on top of the shorter building across the street. He had never once been ungrateful when it came to Mal, but he needs her, more than he ever has, right now. He hasn’t spent a night this cold outside in the two and half years he’d known her. She would always find him here, sneak him into the trappers’ den where her pimps lived and let him sleep under her cot and then sneak him back out in the morning.

He can’t go there now. Even if she hadn’t forbid him from giving himself over to pimps and trappers, he still would rather freeze than step foot in that place again. They killed her. It’s been two weeks. Whenever he manages to find sleep somewhere, her broken body is what he sees. Her bubblegum is probably what’s stuck to the side of his shoe right now. They killed her. They would kill him too the second they were good and ready.

It’s been two weeks and still he has no idea why she was killed. She was so pretty and charming. What could she have possibly done? What had any of them, really? Arthur hadn't ever done anything bad, but here he was. And all those other people he'd see walking the streets one week only to disappear the next...what had any of them done to deserve this?

For a second, Arthur thinks he’s freezing to death, hallucinating, because he really does smell her brand of smokes and he can hear snow crushing under approaching footsteps.

When he looks up though, he couldn’t be more wrong.

The two boys walking towards him from the street are big. Whether or not he’s seen them before is irrelevant. The bandanas peeking out from the collar on their coats is the same color as the one Mal wore tied around her wrist.

Arthur's perhaps the only person who knows of Mal’s death who isn't obligated to keep his silence, which makes him a witness, a liability. He takes a deep breath, wondering how long they’ve been looking for him. 

They stand in front of him, close enough to block him from escaping once he stiffly gets to his feet.

One of them reaches forward to put out his cigarette on the wall beside Arthur’s face. “Here’s how this goes, kid,” he says. “You give us a reason not to gut you, or you die. What’ll it be?”

This is where already being a gang’s property, the way Mal was, would have helped Arthur right now, because then and only then, would he be untouchable to another gang.

The boy snaps his fingers at Arthur. “Well? Make up your mind? We got other shit to do and it’s fucking freezing.”

The top is still off of the coffee. Arthur tosses the cup in the boy’s face. It’s not as hot as it could have been, but it’s enough to send the guy stumbling back and the other with him.

“Catch that little fucking bitch!”

The frigid air feels like Arthur’s breathing in shards of glass, but he keeps running as fast as his tired legs will let him, his backpack held tight in his arms, only to be met by three more boys at the other end of the alley. They surprise him. He’s slammed hard to the ground.

“All this pretty white snow,” one teases, “and it’s about to get covered in red.”

“No, no, please! Help! Help!” Arthur can see people through the mouth of the alley going in and out of the pub, but no one stops to get involved.

Screaming does nothing once he’s kicked in the stomach, but still he struggles to get up. He has to. It doesn’t even matter what they do to him; they have his bag. He _has_ to get it back.

“Listen, I’m sorry! Tell me what I have to do, okay! I’ll do it!”

“Too fucking late,” the boy still wiping coffee from his face punches him hard on the cheek, stunning him. “Pull him up.” He starts to unbuckle his belt. “Get his pants.”

Arthur’s dumped onto a stack of snow-covered pallets. The cold on his bruising cheek wakes him up enough for one more valiant struggle, but it’s no use.

In his haze, he’s startled by several pops from a gun going off nearby and blood spotting the side of his face, his hand, and the snow. The boy behind him is choking for air, falling over Arthur before pulling them both back to the ground.

Arthur crawls aside quickly, completely confused until he can see what’s happening. Two other boys are here from another gang. The taller of the two has already shot another of the fleeing boys, while his partner crushes one boy’s face with his bare hands. If Arthur could run, he would, but he’s never seen anything like this before, as if the boy without the gun has metal for bones, because he keeps punching as if he feels none of it. And when he’s done, he just buries his hands under the snow to get them clean.

Arthur’s shivering for reasons other than the cold once the man sees him still breathing. He tries to sit up more. “Um…Th-thank you, for…for…”

The one with the gun curses nearby. He pulls off his knit cap in frustration. “One of them got away. We gotta move, Eames. He’s still close.”

“Fuck it, Cobb,” the other heaves, in a strange accent, his voice rough. “We’ve been out here for hours. There’s no one left. He’s got nowhere to go.”

“Who gives a shit? He could be the one who fucking killed her and he’s getting away. We gotta go.”

“It’s over, Dom. We’re done. Unless you want to celebrate your victory in prison?” He puts his gloves back on and points in the direction of sirens.

“Fuck you, Eames.”

In the midst of their spat, Arthur scoots away, wincing, from the stockier man. He can't see his backpack anywhere, or the boy who’d originally taken it from his hands.

“Oi? Kid?” he hears the one with the accent say before the man nudges him with his boot. “Boy?”

All Arthur can say is, “It’s gone.” The picture of his mother, the apple, the bagel, the sock, everything he had. The last two years of toiling and starving and risking his neck just for a few more dollars to save…gone.

The one whose name Arthur can’t remember just stares at him as Arthur lies down flat in the snow. He frowns. “Leave him. He’s nuts. ”

Eames shakes his head. “Nah, they wouldn’t try to fuck with a crazy shit. Come on, boy, get up.”

Arthur sobs, trying to get away. “No. Just leave me, I’m okay. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Yeah? Well, tough shit. You’re not snitching to the fucking cops.” He drags Arthur to his feet, giving the taller boy orders. “Go round up the others. I’ll meet you back at base.”

+

 

Arthur's taken to the shabbiest little apartment he’s ever seen. Food wrappers, weapons, and trash lay scattered everywhere and all around are the telltale signs that dozens of boys live and share these three floors.

The stairs creak as if they’ll give way at any minute. Arthur’s dragged to a tiny bedroom on the top floor, still crying in disbelief and whispering, “It’s gone, it’s gone,” as he’s dumped in the bathtub in the adjoined bathroom and undressed.

“What’s your name, huh?”

Arthur shakes his head on the rim of the tub, shivering from the low heat in the building and the cold empty tub. The only reason he can come up with for being naked in an empty tub is that he's probably going to be chopped up into little pieces and dumped in the garbage. “Doesn’t matter,” he whispers. 

Eames raises his brow. “Okay, then. So what’s 'gone,' other than your sanity?”

“Everything.” Why did he fight off those other boys just to end up here? He cries again. He doesn't want to die like this.

“Mhm. Makes total scene.” Eames puts all his clothes in a trash bag and knots it. He glances at Arthur who’s staring at him. “You’ll get cleaner clothes in a bit. I just don’t want you getting fleas on any of my shit first. No offense.”

Arthur watches the man pick up his feet to wiggle and prod at his red toes before doing the same to his fingers. The bruise on his cheek is checked as well.

Eames folds up Arthur’s legs to keep his feet from getting burned as he adjusts the water. “You fucking bums always amaze me. I always hear about those rich fucks who go to ski up in dangerous mountains, because I guess they don’t know what else to do with their money than try to kill themselves with it, right? And they get caught under a bloody avalanche for ten seconds and all their fingers and toes turn black and freeze off, and yet here you are, no gloves and those thin little shoes on, all day, all fucking winter, right? And there’s nothing wrong with you. Unbelievable.”

As the hot water fills the tub, Arthur realizes that he hasn’t seen himself naked in a very long time. He’s almost as pale as the bathtub, and he’s skinny as a toothpick. Skinnier than he was in the fall.

“Is that too hot?” he hears Eames ask. “I’d make it scalding, but I want to kill whatever little creatures might be living on you, but not cook you in the process.”

Arthur takes the soap but doesn’t do anything with it. He just sinks under the water and stays down until Eames reaches in and pulls him up by his hair. He remains low, letting the water tickle his chin.

His brain starts to work a little better as he thaws. He's not going to be chopped into pieces, but he still wants to drown himself. That want is obvious, so Eames stays in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, watching him patiently.

“Why were those little shits after you? You get in their way or something?" Eames raises his voice a bit when Arthur doesn't respond. "I already know you can talk, so answer my question.”

Arthur's tears slide down his chin into the water. “Why did you let that guy get away?”

“Did you not hear me?”

Arthur glances at him, assuming that he’s about to get hit with one of Eames’ powerful fists. He's never seen a look like that in anyone's eyes before and he's been at the mercy of enough violent men to know. “Sorry,” he whispers quickly. “It's just that h-he mugged me.”

“Hm,” is all Eames says, still staring like he's about break Arthur's nose.

Arthur flinches away when Eames comes back to the tub.

Eames takes the soap from Arthur’s hands to scrub him himself. “That’s rough.”

It doesn't sound sympathetic at all, but it still brings up new tears. "Um, Eames?"

"Hm?"

"Are you going to hurt me?" He cringes when Eames' hands pause. He stares at his own knees, waiting.

"Tell me your name."

"Arthur…"

At last, Eames resumes washing his back. "Well, Arthur, we'll see. Won't we?"

+

 


	2. Chapter 2

+

 

After the bath, Eames gives Arthur one of his sweaters and a pair of old sweatpants. Their fit would be comical if Arthur wasn’t so afraid of the man who’d given him these baggy clothes. Eames pushes him to sit on the bed. Arthur stays put, spotting Eames’ gun tucked in back of his pants once the man turns his back to retrieve the bag of clothes from the bathroom.

Eames pauses in front of Arthur, the strong curve of muscles visible in his arm under his hoodie as he carries the bag over his shoulder. The scary look is back on his face. “I’m going downstairs for a minute. Don’t touch  _anything_ , understand?”

Arthur nods, flinching when the door is slammed shut. He immediately snoops. He retrieves one of his socks that must have fallen out of the trash bag. In the bedside table, he finds a twenty dollar bill he quickly stuffs in the sock and pockets it, figuring that he might as well pay himself in case Eames doesn’t later. It is, after all, this man’s fault for Arthur’s entire life getting carried away by the boy he didn’t chase. He owes Arthur a lot more than this, but Arthur’s back to sitting in the same spot before Eames returns.

He brings Arthur a bowl of instant oatmeal. Arthur doesn't feel guilty at all about the money in his pocket, because the night’s still young. He's already seen this man kill. Anything could happen.

Eames sits in an old chair, watching Arthur wolf his food down as he himself drinks a full can of beer like it’s water. "Want one?"

"No thanks." It would be nice to coat his sorrows in alcohol, but Arthur's not that big of a fool to get drunk when he's already in a vulnerable spot.

Eames finishes the second one just as fast before he gets up to go to the bathroom.

Arthur doesn't know he's holding his breath until he hears the shower turn on. He looks down at his warm, cleaned hands. They're shaking, their palms as empty as the bowl in his lap. How the hell is he supposed to start over from scratch? This twenty dollars will run out in one day, considering that his coat, his shoes, and his backpack are all gone. He can’t even buy toothpaste so his teeth don’t fall out. How is he supposed to buy food too? And he can't wear these big clothes and expect anybody to want to pick him up. It's impossible. He's too tired and worn out to start over. It's too fucking cold now, and it'll be too fucking hot as soon as summer rolls around again anyways.

This is it then, the end of the road. He’s done the best he could and now it’s over. Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll go to wherever Mal is.

Arthur glances at the bathroom door, wishing he would have drowned himself in there where it was so warm and the air comfortably steamed. If he can get his hands on Eames' gun, he'll just have to settle for doing it that way instead.

He looks down at his bowl, a little guilty now. Eames has already done too much for him. Arthur isn’t going to make him responsible for disposing of his body once he’s died. He’ll have to go someplace else. It’s the least he can do, and maybe that way, Eames won’t ever have to know what happened to him, if he even cares.

Eames comes out of the bathroom in a towel, still drying his hair. "Hm?"

"What?" Arthur's caught staring when Eames drops his towel on the floor. He momentarily forgets his plan, seeing Eames naked. The man can't be far from twenty, or maybe a bit younger. He's skinnier without all his layers of coats, but he's cut from neck to ankle in lean muscle. Muscles that don't even begin to describe how strong Eames really is. He'd fought like a man twice his size. He's dangerous, but he's also...pretty? That can't be right. Boys like Eames can't be called pretty, Arthur's sure. But whatever the right word is, Arthur feels something strange stirring in his belly, burning his cheeks, his ears. "Oh...sorry." Seeing Eames makes Arthur's insides feel funny. "Um..." He almost drops the bowl on the floor when he fumbles with it, trying to set it on the table. He stands and then sits down again. “Sorry. Um. I’m leaving in the morning.”

The man’s short, little chuckle is snide as he redresses. “You really are insane. Damn, I hate when Cobb’s right.” Eames cracks open the window to blow his smoke outside once his cigarette is lit.

Arthur folds his legs under him, getting nervous again. “I’m serious. Thank you for everything. If I could repay you, I would, but…”

“Oh, you will. You’re not going anywhere.”

Arthur tenses. He swallows when Eames turns to look at him. “I'm  _not_  cliquing up, if that’s what you're thinking.”

Eames leans on the wall and crosses his arms, his brow raised with amusement. “Okay. Leave now, then.”

Arthur’s shoulders sink. "What, but..." He glances at the window and the snow still falling. He doesn’t move. "Well, can I at least…think about it first?”

Eames snorts before laughing at him. “You mean, can you stay here tonight and then bail tomorrow. You know, it’s going to get even colder tomorrow night  _and_  you can count on some brand new thugs sampling your banged up merchandise for free, although now, they’re all thinking you belong to us, so you might as well let that be the truth.” Then something occurs to him. “Who were you working for before anyways? Who cut you loose?”

“Nobody. Just me.”

Eames whistles. “Jesus fucking Christ, kid, how are you still alive right now?”

Arthur shrugs. “I had a friend… but she’s gone now.” Everything is gone now. “So…” He rubs his legs back and forth, trying to stave off a panic attack. This is the thing that's been bouncing around in his brain for the past two weeks; his being alone. He’d been drifting, trying, since she died. It only makes what happened tonight hurt more. There is nothing left for him. He’s not dead now, sure, but he will be by next week, because there is no way he can survive out there on nothing. Losing the money was one thing, but being alone has him contemplating jumping out of the window right now. His eyes burn.

“She?” Eames frowns when Arthur nods at the floor. “Was her name Mal by any chance?”

Arthur’s startled. “Yes. How do you know her?”

“Oh, everybody knew Mal.” Eames scratches the back of his neck, his gaze softening, voice low. “She is—she  _was_ —Dom’s girl.”

Arthur tenses again. Eames is looking at him funny.

“You’re definitely staying,” Eames finally states. “Can't let one of Mal's stray cats freeze. I owe her that much. You belong here now. Not with  _us_ , though, just me.”

On the surface, this sounds great. He won’t be passed around like a party favor the way he would be if he was really getting recruited and initiated, _but_ his relief is short-lived, once he remembers that this isn’t at all what he wants. He's not stupid. He knows it’s much easier to leave the streets than it is to leave a pimp or a gang. Nobody gets out once they’ve sold their soul to a higher power. And he’d be the lowest little rat on the food chain with no say over who he has to fuck or who pockets the money he earns, but still… he’s not outside freezing his ass off anymore.

His sigh comes out more irritated than afraid, even though he knows he should be terrified. “So…what’s going to happen to me now?” As if he doesn’t already know. Only now that he’s actually considering what all this means, he’s liking this plan more and more. Eames is young. Hot. That's a good word for it. Eames is hot. And though he might not be massive like other gang lords Arthur’s seen, Eames is no less intimidating, and he’s already proven that he can protect Arthur. He knows from seeing the man naked that Eames is much bigger than he's comfortable handling, but he'll just have to get used to it. Other than that, he can’t think of any complaints as to why lying under Eames won’t be better than what’s he’s been doing to survive. Arthur’s whole life is about to change. He just knows it. 

But Eames looks at him and shrugs. “The fuck if I know.” He lights another cigarette and laughs. “I’m still trying to figure how a gangly little ugly fuck like you actually made money. Like, do men really think you’re attractive, or…?”

Arthur wants to laugh, but no sound comes out. He wants to laugh because it’s better than crying over this. His life is a joke after all. A sick, cruel joke. Of course, the first time he’s ever thought somebody was good-looking, the one single person, in the entire world, that he likes just called him ugly. Fucking perfect.

Eames shrugs again. “So, yeah, I don’t know. Do what you want, I guess, until we figure something out. There’s books here. Somewhere. You just got to stay put, that’s all." He grins. "Trust me, if you don’t want your ass getting creamed by every man in this building – and there are a lot of them and they'd all love a hole to fuck – you won’t step foot outside this door unless the building’s on fire.”

Arthur says nothing back, in disbelief over how worthless he feels. Eames is really, really attractive. Of course he wouldn't want Arthur. Arthur stares at him until Eames is done talking. He rests his chin on his hand, his eyes downcast. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure, because that attitude in your voice disagrees that statement.” He waits for Arthur to respond, getting annoyed. “I don't get it. So…what? You  _want_  me to fuck you? Is that it? Because I can. You're cute enough, just keep your clothes on.”

Arthur covers his face because he knows he’s blushing and his eyes are stinging, but he’s quick to move away from the bed when Eames steps into his personal space.

"Well? Strip. There hasn't been a whore in this place or anybody in my bed for a long time, so show me what you got. Come on."

Arthur feels his chest getting tight, his ears hot. He’s been called a whore and much worse too many times for it to bother him this much, but it does. “Fuck you,” Arthur mutters, knowing those two words are going to get him killed, but that’s what he wants anyways, so who cares? “If you can't pay me, then… then forget it.”

The gaze leveled at Arthur makes him shiver as Eames rumbles, “I take back what I said earlier. I see why men pay for you. You’re a weak little punk, but you’ve got searing hot anger in you and it’s burning you up, isn’t it? You just want to explode so badly, but you can’t, or you  _won’t_ , because you’re afraid of what will happen, right?” He hums. "Smart boy."

“Shut up!”

Eames grins, strutting closer. “None of them have seen you like this. How many men have you ever scratched at? None, I bet. And you want to do much more than that, don’t you kitty cat?”

His cheeks burn hotter. He is  _not_  going to cry over this. He’s not. He has no idea why the people he’s seen jogging and exercising in the park or eating lunch in the outdoor cafes always complain so loudly about getting dumped or rejected. All this time, he's thought that being attracted to another person was some serious major part of being normal, but it's obviously overrated. And judging by the way the men who've been attracted to Arthur have treated him, Eames ought to be grateful that Arthur's not like any of them. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that you need this cock, right?”

“Wrong.” He’s being goaded, he knows. He feels stupid, and exhausted, and on the edge of another panic attack, because he's in over his head now, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t go down fighting at least once in his life. 

“Listen, kid, if it’ll make you sleep easy tonight, you don’t have to be weird about it—unless…this is part of your…act, right?” Eames pauses and tilts his head. He scratches behind his ear with a smirk. “Is this how you play hard to get with all those losers? Fuck that, you don't have to play games to get me off. Come here, Arthur.”

“No.” His hands ball into fists at his side as he steps back again.

“No?”

“No. Don’t touch me.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. Make me. Burn me with that anger, Arthur. I want to see it.”

Arthur’s never punched anyone before. He’s sure his hand hurts a lot more than Eames’ jaw does. He’s also sure that Eames never expected him to hit him. Arthur certainly didn’t expect it either, in truth, but now that it’s happened, he can’t take it back.

Eames touches his jaw as if a mosquito might have bitten him. He isn’t teasing and smug anymore. Surprise fades, and in its wake is all steaming anger and the eyes of an animal ready to attack. Like that cop, or the mechanic, or the boy who he’d thrown coffee in his face.

Arthur’s hands are still balled up in their fists again. He can’t breathe.

Eames sighs, his jaw clenching. “I’ll consider that a clumsy slip of your hand, because  _surely_  you didn’t mean to do that on purpose, Arthur. Not to me, at least. No, no," he hisses, "I’m the very last person you want to put hands on.”

Arthur knows he’s dead now. He’s knows he blew it. He doesn’t even really understand why he did it.

He does, however, know why he hits Eames again. He may have wanted to kill himself before, but killing himself and being brutally murdered are too very different things and Arthur does  _not_  want to die like this.

Eames huffs out a quick, razor sharp chuckle as this punch actually gives him pause. “I warned you. You’re playing the wrong game with me, Arthur. You don’t know me.”

“No,” Arthur’s voice wavers, “but for a second, I thought you were different, but you’re just a jerk.”

He swings again, but Eames catches his wrist and spins him, pinning and twisting Arthur’s arm high up his back. Arthur doesn’t even see it happen, but he’s bent over the edge of the bed with Eames’ weight on his back keeping him down. He yelps when the only thing his futile struggling earns him is Eames twisting his arm even more.

“I never wanted to be a jerk to you, you fucking psycho!” Even Eames’ panting breaths on the back of Arthur’s neck feel angry, triggering something awful in Arthur's head as Eames begins to speak again. “But I don’t appreciate you being a cunt. You were pissed when I turned down your services and then, what? You throw a fucking a tantrum when I say I'll do it? I personally would rather you not have to sell your ass to stay here, but if that opinion offends you so fucking much, by all means, I’ll…” He falls silent for a moment. “Or… Or maybe this isn't about hooking at all for you, is it?”

Only a very little what Eames is saying registers to Arthur. He tries to swallow the sob before it comes out, but he can’t. Eames is too smart, too quick. Arthur... _wants_  him. This intense feeling is so new, and for a brief moment, it had been nice, but it’s terrifying now that it’s out in the open, because Eames  _will_  use it against him. Anyone would.

He intends to beg to be let go, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, but instead a sound comes out like a mouse in a trap. It doesn’t stop. He whimpers and groans, sobbing from some broken place so deep inside him he even didn’t know it existed until now that it's pouring out of him. 

Through his sobbing, he can hear Eames curse, then mutter, mostly to himself, “Well, well, Arthur. You are one fucked up boy. I’d be a lot more flattered, if you weren't having a meltdown.” 

Arthur doesn't hear that. All his senses are zeroed in on him begin caged, help captive. He screams, feeling it travel all the way through his body. His throat hurts, but he can’t stop. It's either this or suffocating, because as much as he doesn't want to be hurt again tonight, he knows he's weak, and there's nothing he can do. “I don’t care anymore! I don’t fucking care! I don’t care! You can’t hurt me anymore! Just let me fucking die!” As soon as Eames’ hold loosens, Arthur starts to thrash about, trying to get away from him and hit him again all the same, so Eames catches his arms a second time, trapping him with his weight.

Arthur wails when Eames starts to drag him further up the bed to the pillows, his grip on him as tight as ever. Arthur's just so tired, and empty, and angry that he can’t get out of this. It makes no sense. Other people just don’t get hurt like Arthur does. They can fight, like Eames, have people to protect them, or they die quick, like Mal did. Arthur has none of that luck. His anxiety takes over completely because he knows what’s coming.

But Eames just hums softly in his hair, his voice low, even though there's a tinge of impatience and annoyance underneath. “Breathe, Arthur. Come on. You’re alright. Nobody's going to hurt you, for Christ's sake. Just bloody breathe.”

Arthur's confused enough by what's happening that he's able to pull himself back from the brink a little. 

Eames holds him tight, rocking him through his tears. This is what Arthur needs. It's what he's needed for so, so long, and he can't believe it's happening with this man, of all people. Eames' whispered words, his petting is so far from the man who'd killed in the alley. He takes care of Arthur as if he does this sort of thing for Arthur all the time. Eames holds him, and suddenly Arthur’s nine again and back at the shelter with his aunt after his mom died, before the social workers came to take him away. Suddenly he's twelve again and holding Mal's hand as she helps him hide from the unhinged cop. She'd been a stranger too, back then, but she'd held his hand and let his mind work through the realization that even on the streets far away from David and his boys, there were Davids all over the city who all wanted the same thing. Arthur's body, so small and fragile, so unlike other boys, was his bread and butter, his meal ticket, and if he wanted to survive, he'd have to learn how to use it right.

He has to use it now. He's convinced that this is what Eames wants from him. It will be okay. He can do this, he can try, he can start over. And Mal would be ashamed to see him give up right when he's finally landed in a place that he could survive in, with Eames, someone maybe she trusted. His brain is fried from so many ups and downs. He needs to ground himself in something familiar if he's going to get back on track.

"Better?" he can at last hear Eames through the fog.

Arthur nods. He takes several deep breaths and turns a little in Eames' arms to see him, letting him know with that look that he's ready. Eames can do what he wants now. It's okay.

“If you need me to...for you to fucking stop punching me and fucking relax, then okay,” Eames says after a while. “But it’s going to be on my terms, alright?”

Arthur swallows and nods again, unable to speak.

Eames surprises him by putting his mouth on his. It's slow, careful, his lips full and surprisingly soft. Arthur has no idea what this is for. Eames' tongue rolling his around doesn’t hurt, but it also makes it impossible for Arthur to breathe. Eames doesn’t want to let him turn his face away at first, so Arthur stays pliant, staring past him up at the pealing paint on the ceiling until Eames moves to his jaw.

His lips on Arthur’s neck is a much more familiar thing. He’s still pinned in Eames’ arms. The hold is firm, solid, but warm…and relaxing, like Arthur’s burrowed under a pile of blankets. He's never felt this way under a man before and with his brain on standby, he can't figure out why it's so different.

Eames’ hand slides under his sweater, trying to pet his chest, but Arthur wiggles away a little. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good—it does, just like Eames nipping at his neck—but feeling good is what Arthur’s supposed to be doing to Eames, not the other way around. He’s not supposed to just lie here like ragdoll either. He gets his hand down Eames’ pants, past his boxers, to speed things up a bit. It earns him a low rumbling moan from Eames, his cock swelling in Arthur’s fist.

Arthur has no idea how he’s supposed to prep himself for this with his little capsule of lube still lost somewhere in the city in the front pocket of his backpack. He takes a deep breath and hopes that for now he can satisfy Eames enough with his mouth. He squeezes and pumps Eames’ cock again before slipping out from under his arm to move down the bed.

Eames’ pants and boxers are off now. He spreads his legs for Arthur to crouch between them. Eames’ smell gives Arthur pause for a moment. He smells _good_ , really good, in fact. Nothing like how other johns smell. He blushes deeply, blaming his fogged brain, because it's telling him that he wants to rub his face in Eames’ lap and breathe him in. He’s never worked an uncut cock before. He rolls his tongue around the head, coaxing it out of its hood until he hears Eames curse.

Arthur strokes him quickly, making Eames buck in his mouth. He keeps a hand on Eames’ thigh and other gripped tight and high on his shaft, safeguarding himself from being gagged. But when Eames’ hands reach for his hair and the back of his neck, Eames doesn’t try to force Arthur to swallow him down the way others do. His fingers stroke his hair in little circles that make Arthur’s skin tingle. He gags himself just to choke back the moan in his throat. His shoulders hunch, his sucking clumsy as he tries to keep going and get away from Eames’ petting at the same time.

Arthur can sense the faint bitter taste of Eames’ precome on his tongue when he bobs. Eames is getting close. He knows that Eames won’t be happy that he made him come in under five minutes, but Arthur hardly cares. He sucks harder, dragging his tongue along the underside, his palm pressed over his balls in the hopes of making Eames come so hard he won't want to come again any time tonight.

Nearer and nearer to the edge Eames goes—until he sits up and makes Arthur stop. “I stand—or rather, I  _sit_ —corrected, Arthur,” Eames heaves, his voice gravely and deep as he pulls Arthur into his lap. “You’re damn good, boy, even if you weigh less than my boots.”

Arthur tries to pull back, but Eames has his jaw in his hand and his tongue past Arthur’s lips again. His hands try to touch Arthur, reaching for his chest under his shirt, his ass in his pants, even his hands, but Arthur nudges Eames’ away.

Eames growls, smirking, and flips them, pinning Arthur’s wrists in one hand above his head. Arthur panics a little, still groaning miserably when Eames finds one sensitive spot after another. Eames doesn’t bother removing his own shirt or Arthur’s. The old radiators along the walls aren’t cranking out enough heat for him to completely undress Arthur. Arthur’s baggy pants slip down easily and get tossed over the side of the bed.

“Hey, hey,” Eames whispers, frowning a little even as lust still clouds his gaze. “What’s the matter with you?” He takes Arthur’s soft cock in hand and massages it, pulling a keening moan out of Arthur. He chuckles as Arthur bucks in his grip. “Bloody weirdo.”

Eames clearly doesn’t trust to let Arthur’s wrists go, keeping a hold on them as he leans over Arthur to search in the bedside table.

Arthur’s both relieved and stressed to see the lube bottle, but he says nothing. He _can’t_ say anything. His cock is doing something he’s never witnessed it do before. He’s too busy trying to will it back to sleep that he doesn't immediately notice Eames’ slick fingers ease their way between his wide spread legs. His balls tighten and his cock jumps when one of Eames’ thick fingers slides inside him.

He bites his bottom lip to keep quiet, prompting Eames to kiss him again. His moan slips free. The second finger joins the first, curling every so often. The pleasant buzz it creates baffles Arthur to no end. He’s always stretched himself on the streets, but he’s not totally unfamiliar with another man doing this. Their fingers had always hurt, impatient and rough, but Eames’ strokes have Arthur’s brain shorting out more and his hips moving of their own accord. His body’s greedy for the third finger, and for a moment, he forgets that it’s not supposed to feel good. The stretch burns because he’s already sore, but there’s something else, something indescribable that makes his voice rise like it never has before.

Everything screeches to a halt when Eames’ fingers withdraw, replaced with that big cock. Arthur bites Eames’ collarbone as he’s stuffed. Eames’ size makes him feel like he’s never had sex before. Eames is a lean man, but being caged under him is overwhelming. Not because it’s hurts, not because Eames makes the same noises that most men do, and not because Arthur doesn’t want to be here. It hurts, but pleasure still blooms and rolls through him, taking over his body, making his hips rock with Eames’ steady rhythm, making his hands, now free, reach for Eames’ arms, his back, his ribs, making his cock leak between them. Arthur’s panting moans mix with Eames’ quiet grunts, sounds that caress Arthur’s ears like more of Eames’ kisses.

It’s not right. It shouldn’t feel like this.

Arthur doesn’t know how to make it stop without simply removing himself from the bed. He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration as his anxiety starts to creep back to the surface. Every time he tries to stifle his moans, Eames’ lips are there, parting his and drawing more of those sounds out. When he tries to move so that Eames’ cock can’t reach that bizarre spot inside him, Eames’ big hands just hold his hips in place so he can drive for that spot even harder.

“Eames,” he pants, pushing at Eames’ chest. He needs air and a second to clear his head. He’s in disbelief, because he can feel the telltale signs that he’s close to coming. It’s scary. He needs a moment to make sense of this. “Eames, stop.”

“Almost there, baby.” Eames takes his hips in hand again and kisses his face. “Don’t worry, baby, I got you.”

He tries to pull away then, pushing harder at his chest. “No, no, no, no, no. Stop. Eames, stop.”

Eames’ smile is smug as he pins Arthur’s wrists down in a soft hold, whispering as he draws another moan past Arthur’s lips, “You want this.”

Arthur does. The only thing he’s ever wanted more than this is his mom and a home. But how he feels, how Eames makes him feel, it has to be the same as what johns get from him. Pleasure costs money. Arthur can’t pay for this.

Eames is ignoring him. His hold is nonthreatening, but it still scares Arthur in all too familiar way. His panic shoots through the roof. Eames yells when Arthur bites his neck hard. Arthur scrambles out from under him and grabs the closest thing he can reach. The old, heavy table lamp’s vase is already cracked, so it shatters when Arthur brings down over Eames’ head.

Thinking the man unconscious, Arthur pushes him over and hurries to the other side of the bed to get his pants back, but Eames groans, reaching for him, startling Arthur back empty-handed.

Arthur's heart is racing, overrun with adrenaline. He’s finally done it. After all these years, he’s finally made a man bleed. But now what is he supposed to do? He’s managed to take something that felt good and new and turned it into the usual violence, except, he’s never seen anyone as angry as Eames is right now. David, the cop, the mechanic, and all the others would piss themselves if they were standing where Arthur is standing right now.

Eames growls like he’s about to grow fangs and rip Arthur’s heart out as the gash on his temple bleeds down his shirt.

He gets Arthur cornered, so he lunges for him, swatting away his little fist as if they’re nothing. He grabs Arthur’s hair and catches his knee when Arthur tries to hike it into his groin.

Arthur’s back hits the wall hard with Eames' hand at his throat and the other still under his knee, keeping his leg held high. Arthur’s trapped.

It takes Eames several deep breaths not to lose his temper, but his grip is bruising enough that Arthur gives up struggling to free his neck soon enough. “I will not say this a second time, so if you don’t listen now, too fucking bad for you,” Eames says, whispering so quietly and so close to Arthur’s face that each word makes Arthur flinch and shiver. “If you ever try _anything_ like that again,” he moves closer until his lips touch Arthur’s, “I will crush your little neck.”

Arthur nods because he knows this man has no reason to bluff. But Eames is still hard, pressed hot against his hip and his eyes are on Arthur’s lips. When Arthur wets his own, the very tip of his tongue touches Eames’ mouth.

Eames kisses him slowly, coaxing Arthur’s mouth open. He smirks into it when Arthur doesn’t bite his tongue. He draws back to softly kiss first his top and then his bottom lip.

Finally Arthur turns his face away. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I fucking want to, because I want you, and because I know you want me too. You need this—”

“This isn’t about me,” Arthur hisses.

Eames shakes him once, silencing him. “Why not, Arthur? Why can’t I give you what you give me, huh?” His lips graze Arthur’s as he whispers, his own anger pulled back as he brings Arthur's lust to the forefront. “Don’t you have a right to feel as good as I do? Or do you get off on what those other men do to you? They _use_ you and leave you with nothing—well…not _entirely_ nothing,” he teases, grimacing sarcastically, “but not something you want, right?”

His hand on Arthur’s throat relaxes just a little. Eames tries to kiss him again, but he growls when Arthur slaps his face.

Their lips collide in a kiss that overpowers them both far more deeply than fists and threats can. Arthur bites Eames’ lips, his tongue, moaning into Eames’ mouth, his nails digging into Eames’ sides, until he gets spun around and pushed against the wall.

Eames grabs Arthur's hips, biting the back of his shoulder as he fucks into him, his grip as hard as his thrusts. “Take it, Arthur. What do you want?”

“Fuck you!” He grits out. “I fucking hate you.”

Eames’ arm snakes around him, gripping his neck. “Tell me, Arthur. Come on. Tell me what you want.”

He groans. He’s close. “More.” The word tumbles from his lips, turning his brain back on. He melts on Eames’ cock, held by powerful arms. This is crazy. He doesn’t understand why he’s not afraid or why Eames’ sex feels so good, but he pushes back to meet Eames as best he can, closer and closer to the thing he’s always been denied, thing even he tried to deny himself.

Eames comes, pushing Arthur flat against the wall as he moans, his arms tight around Arthur’s waist, his face buried in Arthur’s hair.

Arthur laughs, panting, because something dark in his mind taunts him, telling him that he should have known it wasn’t going to happen for him. He was so, so close, but not close enough. Eames’ come is sliding down his legs, his cock spent. It’s over.

Except, Eames rests his face in Arthur's hair for a moment longer before turning Arthur around and sinking to his knees. Arthur’s too stunned at first to feel what Eames’ mouth is doing. This man, this…strong and powerful man, should not be on his knees, but he is. He’s on his knees…for Arthur.

Eames fingers slip into his soft hole, curling for the spot inside. Arthur doesn’t fight it. He even lets his hands rest in Eames’ hair as he rocks a little. “Eames, I’m… Fuck, Eames. Eames…”

The world stops. Everything is white and buzzing, trembling like the universe has come to an end, until Eames sits back and catches Arthur when he sinks to the floor.

Arthur doesn’t care that his sweater has Eames’ blood on it, or that the collar is stretched, or that the floor under his bare ass is dirty and slick. He doesn’t care that his legs are wide open, hiding nothing, tangled with Eames’. He stares at Eames as the man leans back on his elbows across from him, staring back. The cut on his temple and eyebrow both look terrible, but Eames pays them no mind.

Eames smiles a little. It’s different from what Arthur’s seen his face do so far. It stretches and rounds his cheeks. It’s…it’s something Arthur can’t look at.

Somewhere beyond their sweating, panting, and glaring, they hear cheers from downstairs and outside, followed by the faint plum and burst of fireworks.

Fireworks. Eames snickers, as if something ironic has happened that goes over Arthur’s head. “Tell me your name again. I forgot it.”

“Arthur.”

Eames grins a little again and it makes Arthur’s heart ache. His strained voice is clouded with sarcasm. “Happy New Year, Arthur. Pleasure spending it with you.”

Arthur wants to slap him, but when he lifts his hand Eames reaches forward and catches it, pinning it to the wall as he devours Arthur’s lips, getting Arthur’s heart beating faster all over again.

+

 

Eames is gone when Arthur wakes up the next morning. The snow looks doubled in height when he peers out of the frost-covered window.

He slips back into his sweatpants. He’s relieved that the money and sock are still there.

His stomach growls. He would kill for more of that oatmeal, but when he cracks open the bedroom door, he can hear several loud voices coming from down the hall.

“Fuck, man,” one voice is slurring. It’s only noon but the boy sounds completely drunk. “I’m glad he finally got some pussy so we can all fucking relax now.”

"Yeah," another chimes in, "but where's mine?"

Arthur closes it back quietly, heeding Eames’ warning to stay put. After he showers and steals Eames’ toothbrush, he walks circles around the room, waiting. The sun is high in the sky by the time Eames returns.

“Hey kid, I found something,” Eames says, pinching the butt of his cigarette before he opens the window to pluck it out.

Arthur sits on the bed, a little sad that Eames didn’t bring him food.

“I caught up to the little shit who ran off with your stuff.”

“You what?” Arthur’s on his feet again. He doesn’t see his backpack, so maybe he misheard Eames.

“Yeah,” Eames grimaces, looking down at Arthur. “Your bag was in tatters. Sorry.”

His shoulders sink. “Oh.” He swallows. “Okay.”

“ _But_ , I salvaged as much as I could, which... was a little more than nothing, but...” He digs in his pocket. “Here.”

It’s the picture of his mom and his dinosaur keychain. The edges of the photo are destroyed, one even burned, but her face is still there. Arthur sinks to the bed, his hand over his mouth. “Why did you do this? Why did you do this for me?”

Eames shrugs, shuffling his feet a little. “I don’t know… Because I fucking felt like it, that’s why. You’re not going to smash a fucking lamp over my head again, are you?”

“No! I… I just… Thank you.” What else could he say? He clutches the photo to his chest with the utmost care.

“You can’t keep that in your pocket, though. It’ll get bent up, so…uh. Hm.” Eames glances around the room quickly before heading to the bedside table, and the bottom drawer that Arthur couldn’t get open himself when he’d snooped again earlier. He takes out a cigar box and empties the little bags of weed he had stashed in into the top drawer. He tosses the empty box on the bed. “Hm. Yeah. It's yours.”

When Eames ducks to put the stuck drawer back, Arthur empties his pockets and puts the sock, the photo, the keychain, and the straight razor he also took from the bathroom this morning into the box. It’s sturdy, the lid snug, and it’ll be small enough to fit into a bag once he can get his hands on another one. “I owe you…so much for this.”

“Nah, kid, don’t mention it.” Eames ruffles Arthur’s hair, making Arthur smile even though his bruised cheek still hurts.

Eames frowns at Arthur’s happy, open expression. “Wait. How old are you, again?” He'd never asked.

Arthur looks at him sheepishly before sitting up straighter. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Old enough to take care of myself. It doesn’t matter.”

"Which means?" Eames groans and turns his back when Arthur doesn't answer. “Oh, no.” He rubs his face, groaning again. “Oh fuck me, what did I do?”

Arthur snorts and laughs, a real, genuine laugh that sounds strange in his own ears. He sets the box aside, climbing to his feet on the bed so he can jump on Eames’ back, wrapping his arms around Eames’ neck. “Thank you so, so much, Mr. Eames.”

Eames groans louder. “Please, Jesus, don’t ever call me that. I’m already a fucking old man to you. Don’t rub it in.”

Arthur giggles, because as much as Eames tries to duck his head, Arthur can still see that he’s blushing. He kisses his cheek, making Eames blush even more. “Thanks, Eames. This means so much to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Eames grumbles, gently pulling Arthur’s legs from around his waist and his arms loose from his neck. “Don’t get used to it.”

Arthur sits down again, taking up the box as Eames moves away. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Eames tries to rub the blush from his face as he heads for the door. “Yeah, well, you better not, or else I’ll kick your ass.” He doesn’t slam the door when he closes it behind him this time.

Arthur scoots up the bed to sit against headboard, still smiling as he hugs the box.

++

+

 

**End.**

 

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_graphic by[tamat9](http://tamat9.tumblr.com/)_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more drabble requests, questions, inspiration pics, and updates for this fic series, go to grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com/


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